


sarap nito

by ZeGabz



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Filipino!Bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 02:26:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3674028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZeGabz/pseuds/ZeGabz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What are you cooking?” she finally asks after a painfully awkward silence falls between them. Bellamy blinks.</p><p>“I’m sorry?”</p><p>“What are you cooking?” Clarke repeats, feeling more embarrassed by the second. Just hours ago, she was flinging insults at him, and now she’s standing outside his apartment in sweats trying to talk to him about his dinner. </p><p>(or, Bellamy Blake makes amazing Filipino food and Clarke simply can't resist)</p>
            </blockquote>





	sarap nito

**Author's Note:**

> I'm half-Filipino, so the idea of Filipino!Bellamy brings me a lot of joy. So does Filipino food. Trust me, if you could smell how amazing our food is, you'd be just as transfixed as Clarke.

Clarke Griffin has never detested any one person more than she detests Bellamy Blake.

She moved into Ark Apartments one year ago after her father’s death (some houses just harbor too many ghosts), and she does not think a single day has gone by where she has not found a reason to chew out the idiot across the hall.

He’s always making noise, either by constantly having women coming in and out of his apartment, or by vacuuming at four in the morning, or turning the volume up on some Fast and Furious movie while she’s trying to study.

His sister and roommate is fine. Better than fine, actually. Octavia is one of Clarke’s favorite people, and it’s amazing that one Blake can be so sweet and fun while the other can be such an ass. 

She thinks he takes pleasure in pissing her off, which only angers her more.

She’s already had her daily fight with aforementioned ass because one of his ladies of the night showed up at her freaking door asking to use her shower, because he told her to, so when she slams her door in rage, she doesn’t expect to have to see his face until he finds a reason to annoy her tomorrow.

And then . . . she smells _it_.

The smell fills her apartment, and soon, she can’t ignore it. She’s never smelled anything like it, a slightly salty yet rich and positively mouthwatering scent. Holy hell, she already ate dinner, but her appetite is back in full force now.

Clarke turns her focus back to her television, hoping to just tune out the smell, but the continued adventures of Oliver Queen just aren’t enough. She has to find out what that smell is and where it’s coming from.

She doesn’t bother changing out of her sweatpants and camisole into jeans as she grabs her cell phone and quickly locks her door behind her. She doesn’t get far, however, because it becomes abundantly clear as soon as she steps into the hall where the delicious smell is coming from.

_Damn you, Bellamy Blake._

Well, she’s come this far. Might as well see what he’s cooking.

It takes her two knocks before he answers the door, dressed in a snug-fitting dark blue t-shirt and low-hanging gray sweatpants. He cocks an eyebrow when he sees her.

“Miss me already, princess?”

“Is that Clarke?” comes a voice (Octavia’s) from within his apartment. Bellamy ignores her. Clarke bites her lip, suddenly realizing how ludicrous this is.

“What are you cooking?” she finally asks after a painfully awkward silence falls between them. Bellamy blinks.

“I’m sorry?”

“What are you cooking?” Clarke repeats, feeling more embarrassed by the second. Just hours ago, she was flinging insults at him, and now she’s standing outside his apartment in sweats trying to talk to him about his dinner. 

Bellamy doesn’t reply, looking utterly confused.

“Look, I know we don’t like each other, but I can smell your damn dinner from my room and it smells really good, so I just wanted to see what was-“

“You want to try some?” he interjects, his trademark infuriating smirk on his face.

“Huh?” she asks dumbly. His smirk widens.

“Would you like to try some. Of my dinner.” Clarke just keeps staring in shocked silence. “You know, since it’s gotten you all hot and bothered-“

“Oh shut up, asshole,” she mutters, brushing past him as he steps back, allowing her into his apartment. It’s only as his door clicks shut that she realizes her state of . . . undress.

He seems to sense her discomfort, tossing a bright blue oversized sweatshirt of his her way. She glances at the logo on the front as she slips it on.

“Is this a John Cena sweatshirt?” she asks with a laugh as she steps into his living room. Octavia laughs loudly, scooting over on their couch to make room for Clarke, who sits down with a smile. 

“We watch wrestling every Monday,” Octavia explains with a grin, “And Bell hates John Cena. So naturally, I got him this sweatshirt for Christmas.”

Clarke chuckles at the scowl on Bellamy’s face as he turns and treads back to the kitchen. Octavia turns her attention back to the action movie they’ve got on, so she rises and follows Bellamy.

He’s dicing a tomato when she walks in, a rice cooker running and large pot brewing on the stove. Fresh green beans lie in a strainer in the sink. “I’ve never seen a dish like this before,” she comments, leaning against the counter next to him, “What is it?”

Bellamy pauses his dicing and glances up at her curiously. “Has O ever told you we’re half Filipino?” Clarke’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“That explains so much,” she says in wonder, and Bellamy chuckles. He looks at her searchingly for a long moment, as if considering something. Whatever he’s looking for, he seems to find it when he finally takes a deep breath and starts talking.

“Our father was Filipino,” he explains, “He taught our mother Tagalog and everything. So when he died after Octavia was born-“

“I’m sorry,” Clarke murmurs in surprise. She never knew their dad was gone too. Bellamy gives her a sad smile.

“-she made sure to teach us about our heritage as much as possible.”

“Including food?” Clarke guesses, gesturing at the pot. Bellamy nods.

“Yeah. She was a great cook. O and I always looked forward to when she would cook Filipino dishes. You wouldn’t know she was white,” he jokes. Clarke smiles. “Anyways, when she died, I decided to learn how to cook her dishes for O. It was good for me, I think. Makes me feel closer to both my parents.”

“That’s . . . surprisingly sweet,” Clarke murmurs.

“I’m full of surprises, Princess,” Bellamy shoots back.

_Wait, are we flirting?_

“You never actually answered my question, you know,” Clarke points out, “What are you cooking?”

Bellamy returns to dicing. “ _Sinigang_.”

Clarke blinks. “Seen-ee-gan?” she attempts. Bellamy rolls his eyes, which are alight with amusement. 

“ _Sinigang_ ,” he repeats. “It’s a stew.” Bellamy sets his knife down and walks over to his pantry, emerging moments later with a small seasoning packet. He tosses it at her. “It’s traditionally made with a tamarind soup base, which gives it a sour taste. But it’s hard to find tamarind here in the States, so a lot of us settle for Mamacita’s packets.”

Clarke is absolutely fascinated, examining the packet curiously as Bellamy continues, “We usually cook pork rib meat in it, and add in chunks of tomatoes and green beans, and then serve it over rice. Usually one pot will last O and I for days.”

“It smells amazing,” Clarke admits dreamily.

“Then I guess you’ll have to stay for dinner,” comes Octavia’s voice from the living room, “Right, big brother?”

Bellamy looks at Clarke hopefully. “Truce?” he offers, holding his hand out to her. Clarke smiles and takes it.

“Truce.” Bellamy winks at her before returning to his cooking. Clarke elects to remain in the kitchen with him as he cooks, chatting with him amiably. She finds out he’s a police officer, three years on the force, and she tells him she’s in her third year of medical school, hoping to become a pediatrician.

Clarke also discovers Sinigang is her new favorite dish . . . ever, much to Octavia’s delight. Bellamy watches her as she practically inhales the stew with something akin to a smile on his face.

When she feels she’s overstayed her welcome, she hugs Octavia goodnight. “I can’t believe this is the first time you’ve come over,” she whispers in her ear, “Please come again soon!”

“I will,” Clarke promises before breaking the hug. She turns to Bellamy, leaning against his doorway. Octavia excuses herself, skipping off to her room cheerfully. Clarke begins to take off the sweatshirt, but Bellamy holds up a hand, stopping her.

“It looks better on you,” he says gruffly. “Plus, I don’t like John Cena.” Clarke smiles. Bellamy hesitates a moment, before adding, “I’m sorry about today. And yesterday, and the past year. I’ve been an ass.”

“So have I,” Clarke relents, before adding, “Officer.” Bellamy steps out of the doorway as Clarke steps toward it, and as she tries to brush past him, his arm shoots out and gently grape her at the waist. He pulls her in and gently presses a chaste kiss to the corner of her lips.

“I’m cooking _Adobo_ next week,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against hers as he speaks, “Want to find out what it is?”

Clarke grins, pulling away from him and stepping across the hall to her door. “You know where to find me,” she replies, unlocking her door and slipping inside. 

She smiles at his laugh as she shuts her door.


End file.
